The Receding
by hestia-jones85
Summary: No one needed to die to go to heaven. It was a truth, and Merope Gaunt knew it. DISCLAIMER: I am not J.K.Rowling


_And so the fates have come to claim me…_

***

Tom Riddle got down from his mare, panting. There was something wrong with Maud. She had never shown any tendency towards irrational fear, but today, she was exceptionally scared of something. No amount of coaxing from Tom's side would make her budge from the spot.

"Maud, darling," he said in a defeated voice, "did we have to stop here, of all places?" He looked around. It was still a bit further from home, and the thicket and wild undergrowth did nothing to alleviate his mood.

He was incredibly exhausted himself, which in itself was highly unusual because horse-riding had never tired him before. He was born for the saddle.

Why was this February afternoon so hard on him?

"Would you care for a glass of water?" asked a timid voice.

Tom turned around, startled. "Who-"

"It's me," said the girl, coming out from behind a tree.

"Who are you?" asked Tom coldly, ignoring the goblet that she was offering him. "I've never see you before."

He felt no obligation to be civil to her; she was horribly unkempt, with her dull hair and squint. Besides, the kind of rags she was wearing clearly showed she was not a person of respectable social standing. _In fact_, thought Tom, _she looks very much like that misbegotten son of the tramp who lives nearby._

"I am Merope," she said. "I live in that little house by the copse."

_Little house_? Tom snorted. "You mean that hovel there?" he asked, pointing at the girl's home.

To his surprise, she smiled. "Yes," she replied with an eagerness which unsettled him. "Aren't you thirsty though? You look tired."

Tom shook his head. There was no way on earth he'd drink something offered by a pitiful tramp's daughter. It might not even be safe. "I should be getting on," he said, walking towards his mare. "Come on, lass," he murmured in Maud's ear lovingly, "we'll walk if you don't want to run." He patted her and took the rein to lead her on, but the mare didn't move. Tom threw up his hands in frustration.

The girl spoke up again. "I think your horse is tired, too. You might want to rest for a while."

He turned to face her. "No, thank you. I don't wa-"

Their eyes were locked, and Tom felt deliriously thirsty all of a sudden. "Yes, I – I think I'll a take a sip," he heard himself saying.

The girl smiled as she offered him the goblet again. Tom took it gratefully. The water, or whatever she had poured into the goblet, had a strange fragrance – like…like musk, and sandalwood, and rose…He drank it quickly…

***

Merope was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Discolored lines ran all along it, criss-crossing themselves in indefinite patterns. There was a strange beauty about it, though – perhaps because they had been her companion for as long as she could remember?

The fates, she called them. It was the fates which came to her, looting and plundering the little she owned in her head and in her heart. It wasn't much, to be honestly, what she called her own – the happiness she took in small things, like how that pristine yellow flower sometimes grew in the thickets, providing her a reprieve from the green that suffocated her. Green! She hated the colour absolutely.

Green was the colour of the grass and weeds and bushes and thickets and hedges which grew around the hovel she lived in. Green was the colour of the dead snake which had been nailed on the front door. Green robbed her of solace, comfort, solitude, and laughter. Green was the colour which her father always claimed she should be proud of. She had never said it to his face, but green made her feel sick.

And the fates, they were dark green billowy clouds that hovered above her cloistered world. Every time she found something to take delight in, the fates came and smothered it. A crack from her father's wand or a whip from her brother's – the fates had ways of claiming what didn't belong to them.

This time, the fates' acolytes weren't there. They were gone for good, and she was alone. She was alone, and she felt as though she was alive, _really_ alive. And, if she had done it right, she'd have her own lover soon.

_Tap tap tap…_

It was beginning to rain. The smile on Merope's face brightened. She loved it when it rained. The sound of the it falling on the roof drowned out everything else. It made her feel better, protected, safe.

She fell asleep.

The knocking on the door came as though from far away, yet she jerked awake as if on cue. She got up from bed, her heart now beating in tandem with the pounding coming from the door. She took up her wand and rushed, sending a stream of prayers to Merlin, and when she opened it, she felt her heart literally stop.

It was who she'd expected, who she had been waiting for, but just to see him standing there, soaked in rain, panting hard, shivering, _smiling_ – she gasped aloud.

"Merope, I love you," he said, immediately taking her in his arms and kissing her passionately.

***

No one needed to die to go to heaven. That was a truth, and Merope knew it.

He was sleeping peacefully, while she had propped her head upon her elbow to watch him, to take in the smell of him He was beautiful, Merlin, he was so unbelievably beautiful. The dark, curly hair, the angular nose, the full lips. She leaned in and kissed them.

Drawing back, she allowed her eyes to roam over the rest of his body. He was lean and muscular, and the unmarked skin was broken by a long, forgotten scar which ran along his right hip. She sat up and ran her fingers over it…she could remove the scar if she wanted; she knew the magic for it. This was no leftover of a curse. However, she didn't see it as a blemish. She decided to leave it as it was.

He shuddered in his sleep. She summoned a shawl and spread it over them. Snuggling up to him, she whispered, "I love you, Tom."

***

_And so the fates have been driven away…_

The second night was even more mesmeric.

For Merope, there was nothing more powerful, nothing more intoxicating than this – _this_, having the man you love utter your name as though he was caressing it, feeling his fingers leave trails on your skin, being told that you were precious, you were special. It was as though she had attained beauty, as though she had risen, as though the magic flowing in her veins could smite the world.

And when she had reached that zenith of pleasure, when he had collapsed against her, trembling, she realized she would never be the same person again. She couldn't live without_this_, she couldn't live without him, and she couldn't live without love.

"Tom? Will you run away with me?" she asked.

There was only the slightest of hesitation, the shortest moment when she felt that the potion hadn't been strong enough, but then he spoke.

"Yes." He pulled her into his arms, embracing her tightly. "I'm mad about you, Merope, I am. I can't live without you. Nothing else matters to me anymore. Let's elope."

She felt as though a thousand yellow flowers were blooming inside her. "Where will we go, Tom?" she asked, even though it didn't matter as long as they were away from Little Hangleton and her family. There was no power on earth which could make Marvolo and Morfin accept such a match.

"Gretna Green," he replied confidently. "We're getting married."

***

In hindsight, Merope realized as she sealed the letter to her father, it was extremely lucky that she had prepared an entire cauldron of the potion. When she first brewed it, she hadn't planned to use it to hold him captive forever. She'd only desired to know what it was like to be loved, and she had wanted only one man, of course. But now that she had tasted the wondrous nature of having such a relationship, the only way she saw was forward.

"Darling," he called. "Ready?"

"Yes, Tom," she replied. "Let me just get my cloak and my hip-flask."

***

_Dear father,_

I'm leaving.

Love is too strong a temptation to keep me from running way, too beautiful a gift to waste.

I'll not say sorry, for I am not.

Merope. 

***

_If I were to die today, I'd die with no regret. _

Her hair was pulled into a tight bun, and they decorated it with small white flowers. The virgin-white dress was simplicity itself and the train long without being cumbersome. However, something apart from these had done the trick, making her look lovely, and those who had attended to her couldn't quite fathom what it was. Merope, bless her soul, was positively glowing.

***

_I love you._

I love you, Tom.

I love you, Merope.

I love you.

Life was nothing but a tireless repetition of reminders and promises of love.

***

The nausea hit Merope without warning. Abruptly, she got up from the bed and rushed into the bathroom.

***

"Merope, I can't believe this!"

Merope looked at her husband's face, searching for traces of rejection, or doubt, or disgust. But they revealed nothing but happiness.

"Are – you're not angry with me?" she asked.

"Are you insane, woman?" he asked, bursting into tears. "I've never been less angry with anyone in my life. I'm going to be a father, Merope! I'm going to be a father."

It was then that Merope decided that, perhaps, the time for slipping potions into wine and water had passed.

***

It had been a week since Merope stopped giving her husband the potion. The seven days had wrecked her nerves, but to her surprise, he hadn't shown the slightest change. He still woke up every morning insisting to kiss her cheek before getting out of bed. And then, there was the baby, of course. He started thinking of names.

"If it's a girl, her name will be Clarice," he said. "For our baby daughter will be famous, illustrious, and celebrated!"

Merope laughed. "And if it's a boy?"

"If…it is a boy," he said, grinning, "you get to name it."

Merope's eyes widened. "Really?"

He nodded.

"All right, then," she said, "he shall be named Tom Marvolo Riddle, and Tom Marvolo Riddle shall be famous, illustrious, and celebrated."

***

"Let's move to London," said Tom one night.

"Why?"

"Well, I'm not feeling that well," he said. "I've been…a bit disoriented and nauseous for days, and the doctors here have no clue. There are better doctors in London, and I could start looking for a job there."

"Why didn't you tell me before you weren't well?" asked Merope. "Let me see…"

"And how exactly do you think you can help me?" retorted Tom. "It's not like you have a bleeding degree in medicine."

Merope didn't say anything. Tom had been like this for a few days – grumpy and loving by turns. She wondered if this was due to the potion wearing off, but then…it had been nearly a month. And he was still there with her and their child.

_No_, she thought. _This has nothing to do with the potion. He's just stressed out because we're running out of money._

"Tom," she began hesitantly, "if it's because of the money, I can –"

He sat up abruptly. "It's not about the damned money, you barm cake! I'm losing my mind in here, all right? Just shut your trap and go to sleep."

Merope was stunned. He'd never lost his temper like that that before.

"First thing in the morning," he continued, "we pack up and take the first train to London, do you understand?"

"Yes," she replied quickly, "but, Tom, really, if it's about the money, we can sell my locket and –"

She never got to finish her sentence because her husband had fainted.

***

_And so the fates have begun their trespasses…_

London.

Memories of a tiny pub, a diagonal alley full of shops, and walls stacked with hundreds of wands flashed by.

There was also one of a darker alley, less cheerful, and more sinister, no matter how much her father and brother had reveled in it. Merope remembered how she had abhorred the place and had sworn to herself she'd never go back there. The fact that life had drawn her nearer to it made her feel helpless.

***

Tom had paled even worse. A Muggle doctor came to see him – some old friend of his, and the man just gave him a few curious pills and a tonic. He said Tom had fever; he'd get better in a few days.

Yet there was that nagging doubt in Merope's mind. What if Tom was suffering from some side-effect from the potion? What if he had become addicted to it? Will she have to start making him drink again?

No! She couldn't do that. She _wouldn't_ do that. He was starting to love her for real, and a child was involved now. Under no circumstance would Merope allow the innocent baby to be born into fraudulence.

She would wait four days – the maximum number of days that Tom's friend had said would take for the fever to subside. If Tom hadn't got better by then, she would take the last resort – an antidote.

***

Merope took out the tattered copy of _Moste Potente Potions_ from the bag which she hadn't opened in ages.

Tom knew nothing about this bag and its contents. It contained a number of books on spells, charms and potions which had been handed down from generation to generation in the Gaunt family. She'd simply cast an Extension Charm and stuffed all the books into it, knowing that they wouldn't be missed by her illiterate brother, to whom the heirlooms went.

She flipped the pages using her wand because the paper was too delicate. Soon, she was greeted by the illustrated face of a man with glazed eyes who was looking rapturously at a woman. She turned the page, and read through the instructions. Yes, she had read through them carefully, and prepared the potion according to them. But the book had nothing to offer on side-effects.

Frowning, she turned the next page. She was about to start reading when something caught her eye. The page was marked 3-0-2, while the previous page had been 2-9-9. Which meant –

"_Accio knife_!" she cried softly. Her voice was shaking.

With the help of the knife, she sliced through the stuck pages. They came apart.

Fifteen minutes later, she was sobbing. The potion wasn't meant to be given more than once every two weeks. And she'd been making Tom take it everyday for three months.  
Now, his dependence upon the potion had reached a crucial stage – he could neither live with it, nor live without it.

The only thing that could help him now was a bezoar which would completely cure him of the side-effects, and turn him back to the person he had been before.

***

"I'm sorry, Tom," thought Merope as she made her way towards Gringotts to get the Muggle notes exchanged for Galleons. "I'm sorry that I've been lying to you from the start."

***

"Here, Tom," coaxed Merope. "Here, swallow this and…"

"What the ruddy heck is it?" asked Tom. "Never seen medications like that before."

"It's a bezoar, my love," said Merope pleadingly, "please…Doctor Bennigan told me to get this specifically. Love, just take it."

Tom gave her a suspicious look. However, he took the strange looking stone from her palm and swallowed it.

As specified in the book, he slept for a full week.

***

Merope had a good feeling about the day. She had felt her baby move again.

Tom would wake up in an hour. The book said that his memory of the past five months would remain intact, so Merope was certain he wouldn't reject her and the baby outright. Maybe he'd need some time to get used to the situation as he had barely known her before that day she gave him the potion, but a man like him wouldn't abandon his wife and unborn child.

Of course, Merope had never been a good judge of character.

She couldn't recall much of what he had said to her; she had pretty much stopped listening by the time he'd started calling her an "a slut who practised the devil's art." She did remember begging him to stay for the sake of their child. For Clarice. For Tom.

Tom Riddle, the father, had laughed at her, a high, cold, cruel laughter. "But it was under your spell that the baby was begotten. So, give birth to it, or abort it if you want. I have as little to do with it as with you."

"You can't say that, Tom," cried Merope. "I can't raise it alone."

"Then give it away to an orphanage," replied Tom scornfully. "There's one just down the street."

He left the same day, leaving Merope all the cash he had as well as the wedding ring, and warning her never to return to Little Hangleton again, or he would have her killed.

Long after he had left, Merope giggled at the hollowness of his threat. She was already dead.

***

_And so the fates have come to claim me…_

Green was the colour of the room which smothered her.

Green was the colour of her grief.

Green was the colour of the clouds that hung above her.

Green was the colour of her nightmares.

Green was the colour of the fumes that rose from the bag of books which had been set aflame.

***

"Please," pleaded Merope with the landlord, "please, I'm about to have a baby. Please let me stay for just a few more days…"

"Not any more, lady," cried the man indignantly. "We've let you stay a whole month, and you still haven't paid the rent. Now, clear out!"

***

Merope stumbled into the crooked alley. It was surprising how her memory of this place was as fresh as though she'd just visited it this morning. The shop which her father had taken her to was there, one of the only few that were left open during the festive season. She entered it without hesitation. Hunger had the tendency to rob you of all other fears.

"Slytherin's locket, eh?" sneered the man. "And how would you have Slytherin's locket with you?"

"I – I'm Marvolo Gaunt's daughter," said Merope feebly. "Please, you've got to…please, there are certain spells you can use on it and see for yourself…"

The suspicion on the man's face lifted. He took out his wand, and muttered a few spells. The locket shone sharply and he dropped it instantly. His fingers had been burnt, Merope knew, but he hid them from her view, and gave her a long, calculating, and greedy look.

"Ten Galleons, that's all I'm giving."

She took them without complaint.

***

Christmas at the Leaky Cauldron was a noisy affair. Customers, guests and passers-by filled the little pub, wishing each other a Merry Christmas, and sharing drinks and sweets. Merope would have preferred the quiet of her room, but the kindly barmaid, Mariam, had nagged her until she had no choice but to come down and join the festivities.

"Here, lass," said Mariam, offering Merope a drink. "Drink this."

Merope took the goblet with a smile and murmured her thanks.

"I don't mean to be nosy," began the Mariam, sitting down opposite Merope, "but where's the father?"

"He's left," answered Merope truthfully.

The older woman sighed, then nodded. "Yes, that does happen a lot, unfortunately. So, you're alone with the baby now?"

_No_, thought Merope. _It's alone with me_.

Mariam seemed to understand. "Look, Merope, I understand how tough it can be to bring up a child without the father there. My husband died when my son was just two months old. But I had friends, yes, I did, and I can see that you don't have that."

Merope didn't answer.

"Why don't you stay here?" offered Mariam. "Work with me at the bar? I will give you a decent room, and give you one free meal a day. What do you say, lass?"

"I-" said Merope throatily, "that's really sweet of you, Mariam."

"Well, I need some helpers too," conceded Mariam, although she was grinning. "Have you met Tom?"

"Who?" asked Merope loudly, startled.

"Tom, Tom, my son," said Mariam. "He's just graduated from Hogwarts. Told him he could go out and do anything he wants, but the fool says he wants to work here and look after his Ma."

"That's a nice name," said Merope. "Tom…"

Mariam looked strangely at her; she certainly appeared as though she was about to say something, but then someone called her, and she apologized to Merope and left.

_I can't stay here_, thought Merope.

***

It was a harsh night – cold and snowy and utterly unforgiving. Perhaps that was why Merope had thought it best to make her escape then. Mariam would never let her go if she caught her leaving.

She walked out of the pub, wrapping her shawl tightly around herself. Then, concentrating with all her might and summoning all the magic she'd left, she Apparated.

There was a resounding "crack" as she appeared in front of a building she'd only once seen in passing --he Muggle orphanage near the hotel where she and Tom had stayed. Someone must have heard the sound because the door opened just as Merope was about to knock on it. At exactly the same moment, the contractions started.

***

_And so the fates have been driven away…_

"It's a boy," shouted a woman somewhere near Merope.

"I hope he looks like his papa," she murmured. *

***

Merope looked wonderingly at her son. He was Tom in miniature.

"Such a good baby," said the young woman who sat next to her. "He's not even crying."

Merope turned towards her. "Will you one more thing for me? One last favor?"

The other woman chuckled. "If it's something in my power, yes, why not?"

"Will you name him Tom Marvolo Riddle?" asked Merope.

The woman frowned a little. "Mmmm…not the best of names I've heard in a while," she said finally, "but, of course, we will. He's your son."

***

Merope was alone in the room with Tom.

She tried to remember the last time she had felt so much peace; she found she couldn't. This was an altogether different experience, making life, holding it in her hands. It seemed to have drained her of all power energy, yet she felt strangely light and hopeful.

"Tom," she said. "My darling Tom, my beautiful Tom. You'll grow up well, won't you? I want you not to cower before others, not to live a lie, for I didn't do well. I don't want you to fail as I did, my son. I want you to grow up, and search for your father, for how will he refuse you when you're so much like him? I want you to be famous, illustrious, celebrated, for that was our dream for you. You'll achieve all that, won't you?"

She brought the baby closer to her and kissed his forehead. "I love you so much, Tom. I'm sorry."

***

_And so the fates had been driven away. She watched them receding, leaving behind a serene twilight by some unknown lake. But, it was fine. It was fine. She was happy and at peace._

* * *

* Indicates a line taken from _Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince_, Chapter 13: The Secret Riddle.

This one-shot was written for _Watching the Mirror Class, Final Task_ at MNFF. Thank you for reading!

DISCLAIMER: I am not J..


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